


The Revenge of the Hexenbiest

by Antares



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Season/Series 01, Sort of fuck or die Scenario
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 16:19:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antares/pseuds/Antares
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Renard has to find a cure</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Revenge of the Hexenbiest

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to my betas Karen and hisoka44, who did a terrific job!
> 
> Set directly after episode 17, “Love Sick”

\---------------------------------------------

_And then her wicked heart was glad, and as happy as such a heart could be._

\---------------------------------------------

Captain Sean Renard didn’t pay much attention to the dragonfly that was hovering in the air when he got out of his SUV at the precinct. ‘Such a beautiful creature with its deep blue wings’, he thought with only a small part of his brain. He was already going over what was on his agenda for that day, so it took him completely by surprise when the ephemeral insect suddenly landed on the back of his left hand – and stung him! 

“Ouch!” he exclaimed and reflexively sucked at the small wound. He could feel the outline of the stinger embedded under his skin with his tongue. “Putain de Merde,” the French words conveyed perfectly his indignation when he saw the dragonfly jittering away. It was unfair that it was still alive. At least bees paid for their deed with their lives. 

He closed his car door and went directly to his office where he found a pair of tweezers in his desk drawer. Sanitizing the area on the back of his hand profusely, he bent to the task of pulling out the stinger. He had to use a needle to open the skin, but in the end the rather impressive stinger was laying on his desk. It was like an old habit to bag it, because one never knew when a piece of evidence would be needed. 

Over the course of the next hours he nearly forgot about the sting, and only occasionally rubbed absentmindedly at the itching spot. Time flew by. There were so many decisions to make, meetings to attend to, and calls to take. Only when he was in the break room getting a cup of coffee and Sergeant Wu asked him, “What happened to your hand, Sir?” did he give it a closer look. The small wound was now purplish red and heavily inflamed. 

“I was stung by an insect.” He shrugged it off, but seized the next opportunity to disappear into his office. 

_Uh, that doesn’t look very good._ He inspected the sting mark more closely and found that its borders had started getting necrotic. _Definitely not good._ And now that he paid closer attention, he realized that his whole arm had started getting numb. Up to his elbow, he had nearly no sensation left in his arm. 

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. This was no ordinary insect sting. There was some sort of poison involved. Now the strange behaviour of the dragonfly made sense. With a sudden insight, he realized that it was neither the right season nor the right place for that water loving animal. And who had ever heard of dragonflies attacking either humans or wesen? 

He didn’t like to admit that he had been naïve. To find out only hours later that you had been the victim of a meticulously planned attack wasn’t something he would tolerate in his police officers. Hours in which he should have taken counter-measures and searched for an antidote. For a second, he played with the idea of running directly to the nearest doctor, but another look at the blue-green spidery pattern forming on his arm made it clear – this wound had been inflicted by a wesen. He needed someone with more specialized skills than those that were taught in med schools. 

Somewhere in Portland there had to be … Yes, the tea and spice shop whose owner had been killed a few weeks ago and which had been taken over by his sister. That was the place to go if the rumours were right. That was where you went for unusual remedies, tinctures, and much more. Of course, he couldn’t go as Captain Renard, if he didn’t want the whole town speculating about his visit. Even if Rosalee Calvert treated her customer’s shopping lists with confidentiality, he couldn’t exclude the possibility that ill fate would bring a gossiping magpie to the shop while he was there. 

Renard wrapped a scarf around the lower part of his face. In his car he had a baseball cap and a more neutral looking jacket with the emblem of the Portland Winterhawks which he used for playing golf. Anything was better than his expensive brown cashmere coat. 

Thus disguised, at least superficially, he entered the shop. He was convinced that by now the new owner was used to seeing customers who wanted to hide their faces while buying aphrodisiacs or other ‘specialities’. 

“What can I do for you?” the lovely young woman behind the counter asked him. 

He took his hand out of the pocket of his jacket and showed it to her. “I’ve been stung by some sort of blue dragonfly. It was a rather large insect and very aggressive.” He threw the bagged stinger down on the counter. “I’m sure there’s some sort of poison involved. Have you ever heard of this type of dragonfly?” Perhaps he was lucky and there was a natural explanation? A species of dragonfly migrated from God knows where that the Fuchsbau might know about? 

“No, I’m sorry,” the shopkeeper shook her head. “I’ve never heard of that, but I can search in my books.” She was already turning around and running her fingertips over the titles written on the spines of the old leather volumes behind her. 

She decided on a dark green one with golden letters, pulled it out, and put it on the counter. She scanned the index, and then started leafing through a chapter. “Rote Sing-Libelle, no, you said it was blue,” she mumbled and continued her search. 

Five minutes later she was still searching and Renard was getting impatient. He was starting to think that his coming here had been a great waste of time and he should have put his money on the human doctors after all. What could a Fuchsbau possibly know about… 

“Oh, oh.”

“You found something?” 

“Yes. The Blaue Stich-Libelle. ‘Libelle’ means dragonfly in German,” she clarified for him, obviously not suspecting that he already knew that. 

“And?” 

Rosalee read aloud, “It can be trained to attack a single person and deliver its venom via a simple sting. It’s sometimes used by a Hexenbiest as a weapon.” She looked up. “Did you anger a Hexenbiest recently?” 

“I might have,” Renard conceded. Adalind Shade’s tear stricken face when he told her she was no longer useful to him appeared before his eyes. She no longer had the powers of a Hexenbiest due to the mingling of her blood with that of the Grimm, but this whole scheme had her handwriting on it. Adalind must have persuaded a Hexenbiest friend of hers to help her get revenge. 

He had a closer look at the drawing in Rosalee’s book. “Yes, this little beast looks like the one that attacked me.” He felt relieved. Now that the cause was known, the remedy couldn’t be far behind. He already felt better. 

Rosalee, who had continued reading, asked him, “Do you feel any of the following symptoms: burning, inflammation, numbness, fever, dizziness, disorientation, and signs of paralysis?” 

“Yes, some of them.” He gave her a questioning look. 

“It will get worse,” she said regretfully. “The venom will spread throughout your entire body, paralyzing you further. Eventually you’ll die of asphyxiation because your lungs won’t work any more.” She bestowed a pitying look upon him. 

“How delightful.” Renard gritted his teeth. “How do I – we – stop this?” 

She frowned and had a closer look at her book. A moment later she said, “There’s a handwritten note here, referring to…” She bent closer to the book, “…tome II of the ‘Codex Bestiarus’, page 127. Let’s hope it isn’t in Latin,” she sighed and went in search of the book. 

He could have assured her that Latin wouldn’t pose a problem for him, but he stayed silent. His gaze travelled over the bottles with Greek and Latin names on them, and the drawers that were meticulously labelled in neat handwriting. From dried gall bladder to foxglove, from exotic dried plants to gold dust, there were a lot of strange things you could buy here. 

When Rosalee returned she put the book on the counter and opened it to page 127. “The venom of the Blaue Stich-Libelle, also know as the ‘Revenge of the Hexenbiest’ can only be countered by the spilling of the ‘source of life’ of one’s fiercest enemy,” she read out loud. 

“So I kill a Hexenbiest and everything is fine?” Renard asked only half-jokingly. It couldn’t be that easy. 

“That would be very… uhm, counterproductive, making the victim kill one of your sister Hexenbiests, wouldn’t it?” Rosalee stated with a tiny smile. “No, there must be something else.” Her finger was following the line of words. 

‘If it wasn’t the blood of a Hexenbiest, then what was needed?’ Renard wondered. All of a sudden it dawned on him that the biggest enemy of all wesen was – a Grimm! A huge wave of relief rushed through him. Yes! Problem solved. He had a Grimm at his … disposal. Without raising any suspicion he could order Detective Burkhardt to donate a vial of blood, or cut him ‘accidentally’ with a letter opener, or whatever else happened to be on his desk, and then… 

“No, there’s nothing in here,” Rosalee said with a hint of uncertainty in her voice that gave her away. Renard immediately knew that she was lying. She tried to close the book but Renard was faster. He pulled the book out of her hands, placed his inflamed hand on the page in question, and searched for the paragraph that had prompted her lie. The old writing wasn’t easy to read but he had many books from that era at home and was used to it. 

“Oh my, God.” He glanced up and asked, as shocked as Rosalee looked, “’The source of life’ doesn’t mean the blood of a Grimm but it … it … means his ‘fresh semen’?” 

“So you see it is impossible. You should try your luck with a human doctor. They know a lot about anti-inflammatory cures.” Rosalee nodded, took the book back, closed it and stowed it away under the counter. 

She was protecting the Grimm! A Fuchsbau was shielding a Grimm! His detective had certainly made a lasting impression on some wesen. Because she was so protective of Nick Burkhardt, there was no need to let her know that he knew exactly where to find a Grimm in Portland. He schooled his features to a look of utter defeat and said with a deep sigh, “I think you’re right. I should go and see a doctor. But it would have been so much easer to simply gulp down some sort of Zaubertrank and be well again.” 

“It isn’t always that simple,” she answered with pity in her voice. 

“No,” he conceded. “But, out of curiosity, it has to be ingested? The semen, I mean.” 

“Yes, ’fresh from the source,’ as the erudite who wrote the book so delicately put it.” 

“Never underestimate our ancestors.” Renard forced a smile to his lips. “And you’re absolutely sure that there isn’t anything else in your books?” 

“Absolutely. If there’s another cure, then I don’t know about it, and I don’t know whom to ask about it. Your best chance is the hospital, sir. I’m sorry.” 

“Me too.” And he really was because this ‘cure’ was much worse than anything he had imagined. Even if he could think of a pretence of why he needed Burkhardt to give him a sample of his ejaculate, he wasn’t absolutely sure that it would work that way. Because ‘fresh from the source’ could mean that it deteriorated when coming in contact with air, and there was only one way to avoid that. 

He thanked Rosalee and bid her goodbye. It took a great effort to drive back to the precinct because the numbness in his left side had started spreading. He quickly played with the idea of going to his apartment, but he wasn’t yet ready to hole up and die. He made a detour to his doctor who prescribed him analgesics, an anti-inflammatory, and antihistamines, and told him to drink a lot of fluids and come and see him if it got worse. It was obvious that he didn’t know what to do with this type of insect wound and underestimated its possible lethality. 

Deliberately, Renard took triple the prescribed dose. For a wonderful thirty minutes, he lived in the hope that this was sufficient, that his strong will, his special position in the world of the wesen, and his unique metabolism would fight off the poison effectively. For half an hour he felt much better, but then the symptoms came back with a vengeance. 

He could practically feel the fever rise and the venom travel throughout his entire body. No! This wasn’t possible. This couldn’t be happening to him! He was stronger than the venom of a Hexenbiest! He fought with everything he had against the symptoms, and for another thirty minutes he was able to keep up a façade to deceive his co-workers who kept disturbing him with seemingly unimportant questions. But in the end, he had to admit to himself that he was losing the battle against the poison. Even another handful of pills couldn’t change that. 

With a grudging admiration born from despair, Renard had to admit that Adalind really had found the perfect revenge. She hadn’t simply killed him; she had very cleverly put him in a situation where he had to decide between death and humiliation. Adalind had really forced his hand. If... when he wanted to survive, he had to not only reveal to Nick that he knew that he was a Grimm, but he also had to tell him that he himself wasn’t human. And then he had to ask that impossible ‘favour’.

He suffered through the few next minutes without being able to make a decision. He felt a huge fatigue taking over his mind. He decided to take a nap of fifteen minutes. He gave Detective Burkhardt a call before, and told him that he would like to see him after work. He still had no idea how to broach the subject, but it was always good to keep open all possibilities. Only a quarter of an hour, he promised himself. Perhaps sleeping would postpone the inevitable.

\-----------------------------------------------

At first, when Nick got the call from his superior, he didn’t think anything about it. He was completely tied up by working on backlogged paperwork, calling people to check suspect’s alibis and even answering a call from an outraged citizen who was complaining about the ongoing fluctuations in the electric system. He had tried to tell the guy that he was working on murder cases and not power shortages, but in vain. In the end he sent Sergeant Wu to investigate what had caused the problem because there were a lot of strange details not adding up. 

After Nick had left his desk for a minute in search of a fresh mug of coffee, he recalled the request, or rather the summons. Why did the Captain want to speak to him after office hours and not immediately? Had he somehow found out that he was a Grimm? For months now, Nick had been living with the constant fear that his vast web of lies and omissions, half-true answers and improvised explanations, would be exposed. One of these days Hank, or Juliette, or even the Captain would see through his game and demand explanations. Had that day finally arrived? Would he be able to convince the Captain that he wasn’t mentally ill because he could see things other people couldn’t see, but on the contrary was a great asset for the Portland police? 

Nick sighed deeply. There was no point in worrying because he didn’t know how much the Captain already knew and how he had learned it. He took his coffee and went back to his desk. 

\---------------------------------------------

Captain Renard regained consciousness when a full body shudder made his teeth rattle. A quick look at his watch showed him that he had dozed off for nearly two hours! He straightened in his chair and took a short inventory – he felt even worse than before the nap. So sleeping wasn’t a solution. Nor was waiting. He had to do something before he was no longer in control of himself, even if he had to come to an objectively unwise decision. He wasn’t ready to die by the hand of a Hexenbiest. He wouldn’t die without exploiting all possibilities, however horrible they were. 

He swallowed the rest of the pills the doctor had given him. Half past seven. Had Burkhardt already gone home? With a flicker of panic he grabbed the phone. 

“Detective?” 

“Still here. You want to see me now?” 

“Yes, please.” 

A minute later the detective entered Renard’s office. “Captain?” He was obviously trying not to show how nervous he was. 

For the first time, Renard forced himself to look at Nick Burkhardt not as his superior, or as a wesen who had to watch out not to betray himself to a Grimm, but as a man who needed something from the other man. The detective was good-looking, a successful police officer – _stop, Sean,_ he admonished himself. _Remember, his professional skills have nothing to do with what you need from him._ He looked again. Jeans, blue shirt, two buttons open, the hint of chest hair. There was nothing unattractive about him – if he ever could bring himself to ask the question. 

“Have a seat,” Renard said when the detective kept standing by the door. 

Nick wasn’t able to read Renard, but his invitation to sit down obviously meant that this would be a longer discussion. His apprehension increased. He tried to be prepared, but he didn’t know what to prepare for. He sat down and asked, “Is everything okay?” 

“Why?” 

“You don’t look too good. Feverish.” 

“I’m not feeling well,” Renard admitted. 

“You want me to drive you home?” Burkhardt asked and pushed his chair back. If that was all…

“No.” That was really a great idea, much better than his office and he should have thought about it earlier, but he wasn’t sure he still had that much time left. Those two hours while he had been sleeping had been wasted. He felt a surge of Todesangst swamp his mind. He didn’t want to die! Not in this way. Anything was better than losing the ability to speak and to move and slowly suffocate. The intensity of his fear of death made him dizzy for a moment then he shook his head to clear it. The time for hesitation was over. 

“I’ll make it short,” he forced out between clenched teeth. “I know that you’re a Grimm.” 

“Oh, wow.” Nick swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. The way Renard said it made clear that he wasn’t referring to his family name, and that he exactly knew what a Grimm was. But how detailed was Renard’s knowledge? Where did it come from? The meeting at this late hour indicated that he didn’t want to make the secret officially known, otherwise he would have at least asked his partner Hank to be there. 

“Well, what can I say?” Nick decided to stick to general statements and sat on the edge of his seat. He put his whole power of persuasion into his next words. “I hope you see the advantages of having a Grimm on your team. There are so many wesen related cases here in Portland, and I’m your best chance to see and…” 

Renard interrupted him. “I’m fine with you being both a Grimm and a police officer at the same time.” He waved his hand impatiently. 

Nick’s eyebrows shot up. “Uh… Good.” He leaned back in his seat and gave Renard a very puzzled look. So it wasn’t about him being a Grimm? Renard didn’t have a single question for him? Took it like it was a side note, although it opened the door to a whole new universe behind the routine police work? That was more than strange! Damnation, if he only knew how much Renard knew! 

He very deliberately relaxed his fists and asked as calmly as possible, “So, my being a Grimm is not what this is all about?” 

“Uhm… no.” 

“Okay, let’s hear it,” the detective said, and even slouched a bit in the chair to demonstrate that he was not at all nervous or tense. 

Renard took a deep breath. “You see, I have this friend, a very good friend, who needs a favour from a Grimm.” 

“Really?” Nick looked rather incredulous as if he waited for the other shoe to drop. 

Renard couldn’t blame him. 

“It’s not police work related, I assume?” Nick said with a frown. 

“No, no. It’s not as if I’m asking you to delete the file of a suspect,” the captain assured him. “Not at all. I wish it were as simple as that.” 

When the Captain hesitated, Nick seized the opportunity to ask, “You want me to identify someone for you? Find out what kind of wesen they are?” That would be a typical job for a Grimm and Nick would be only too pleased to do that for the other man. 

“No, why would I want that? I could do that myself,” Renard said irritatedly. 

Nick didn’t miss the sharp intake of breath and knew that Renard regretted his words the same moment they were out. He very obviously wasn’t at his best or such a slip wouldn’t have happened. But if the captain was able to see wesen, where did he fit in? Nick bent forward avidly in his chair. “You’re a wesen or a Grimm?” he asked and wasn’t able to keep the enthusiasm he felt from his voice. That was so exciting! There were so many things he could talk about with him. He could… 

“Not a Grimm. Can we please focus again?” If his head wasn’t spinning so much and thinking wasn’t becoming such a difficult task, Renard was sure he could have come up with a much more clever answer. But since his condition was deteriorating by the minute, he felt only impatience. Nick’s enthusiasm was a good thing, but not right now. 

For a second Nick looked as if he would object, but then he became professional again. “Of course.” 

Renard saw he was working it out in his head. Fantastic. There were a lot of questions waiting in his future – if he had a future! He had better get his act together. 

“This friend of mine has been infected by a poison. The only antidote is the … the …” Renard briefly closed his eyes. If Adalind had been here at this moment, he would have killed her so slowly that there would be tales about it in the fairy-books! He couldn’t remember if he had ever felt so… exposed. So… tongue-tied. So… un-royal. 

“The blood of a Grimm?” Nick asked quietly from the other side of the desk. 

Renard gave a snort. “If only.” And it was his overwhelming hatred for Adalind, his deep conviction that she couldn’t win, shouldn’t win, that made him finally finish his sentence. “He needs… the fresh… semen of a Grimm.” 

There, he had said it. And he was still able to breathe. And he had to give the Grimm credit for not doing an impression of a fish. He only opened his mouth once and then closed it firmly and furrowed his brow. Renard was sure this was the moment when he put two and two together. Had there ever been a more humiliating moment in his life? He couldn’t remember. Not even when the members of his family had called him the bastard prince. Then at least he had known that he would make them regret it some day. But now? Now he was in the role of a supplicant. Something he was not at all used to. 

And the Grimm made him wait, unintentionally prolonged the awkward moment until he finally said, “I’ve never heard of such a cure before. So if your ‘good friend’ wants something so intimate from me, I have to talk to him first. You understand? With all the things you can do with somebody’s DNA in the human world, I’m quite sure you can use Grimm-DNA for worse in the wesen world.” 

Renard gave a short nod. How easy it would have been in the old days to capture a Grimm, rape him, take what you needed, and then dispose of him so that he would never be able to talk about it. No, even then there would have been the agonizing moment when a smirk formed on the lips of the Grimm when he learned what a Royal wanted from him. Renard forced his wandering thoughts back to the present and saw that this Grimm wasn’t smirking at all. There was concern written over his features, perhaps a hint of pity, but also a silent plea to give him more of an explanation. At least Renard hoped that he had read the signs right. 

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Nick asked when he failed to answer. “And your condition must be really bad if you considered asking me.” And ‘bad’ was certainly a euphemism. Make it ‘lethal,’ or otherwise the Captain wouldn’t have come to him. 

Renard nodded again and pulled back his right hand which had been covering the wound on his left. The angry red mark with the swelling and the inflammation was visible to both of them now. As if he was looking at the hand of a stranger, Renard stated coolly that it had gotten worse within the last minutes. 

“Who did that?” Nick asked, his usual curiosity pushing aside all other concerns. It was much easer to treat this as a normal police investigation, ask questions, try to find the bad guy, than to think about what it meant for him. 

“A Stich-Libelle. Sometimes used by a Hexenbiest to humiliate or kill their enemy.” Renard’s voice was devoid of any emotion. 

“And here I thought I was the only one who could piss off a Hexenbiest,” Nick said in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. 

“No, you aren’t,” Renard assured him. 

“And, really, the only cure is …?” 

When Nick hesitated, Renard repeated for him, “To ingest the life force of a Grimm, and no, that doesn’t mean blood, because that would be too easy.” He gave his detective a lopsided grin that took all his effort. He wouldn’t beg. Now that he had listed all the facts, it was up to the Grimm. 

“We could consult with a friend of mine,” Nick proposed. “She…” 

“I already talked to Miss Calvert and that’s what was written in her books.” 

“I see.” Nick nodded. It was his turn to close his eyes for a second. He was sure that the Captain wouldn’t force or blackmail him – or he would have done it by now. So the decision was really his. He wasn’t a total novice to this whole… cock-sucking thing. He had experimented a bit during his time at the Police Academy, and he had liked it, so no problem there. And he couldn’t let Renard die. They weren’t close friends, but he respected the Captain, and he could close his eyes and think of Portland. No, that wasn’t necessary, Nick admitted to himself. The Captain was very attractive and he should be able to get it up for him. 

Decision made; after all there was a life at stake. When he opened his eyes again he said, “Okay. How do we do this?” 

“You’re sure that…?” Renard replaced the rest of his sentence with an indistinct gesture. 

“Yes.” 

“Okay.” Renard nodded and let out the breath he had been holding while he waited for Nick’s answer. As matter-of-factly as he was able to, he said, “Since I don’t know if exposure to air makes the sample unsuitable, there is only one way.” He got up from his chair. “So lock the door and sit down in my chair.” 

“Yes, captain,” the detective said automatically and locked the door. 

When Nick came around to the side of the desk where Renard was half sitting because otherwise he was afraid he’d fall, he was relieved to see that the detective wasn’t panicking or having second thoughts. Instead he was smiling and saying, “To use your title sounds a bit strange under these circumstances, doesn’t it?” 

“You may call me whatever you like as long as it’s not an endearment,” Renard warned and waited until Nick was seated in his chair. With his fair complexion it was very easy to tell that he was a bit flushed. But anything was better than seeing stoic resignation on the features of his subordinate whom he was going to blow within a few moments, Renard thought. 

There was one last hurdle – he had to go down on his knees. And this time his increasing weakness wasn’t the problem, his mind was. He had never liked this gesture of submission and today was no exception. But Nick didn’t want to demonstrate his power – at least he hoped it wouldn’t come to that – and he should be okay. He went down on his knees and he heard the Grimm inhale sharply. 

Nick’s head was swimming. Sitting in his captain’s chair and seeing his boss on his knees in front of him could do that to a man. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, perhaps him laying down on the desk or something, but never, ever, had he imagined this scenario. Warmth flooded his whole body and he felt his growing erection pressing against the zipper of his suddenly too tight jeans. 

When Renard looked up, he saw that Nick was breathing more rapidly than before. 

“Open your fly,” Renard ordered rather curtly because he felt he had to somehow make up for his submissive position. He saw with satisfaction that Nick’s hand was shaking when he complied. He first opened the button and then pulled down the zipper. Nick was unmistakably aroused. Good. Although his daydreams had made him imagine other, more violent scenarios, he was glad to see that this Grimm wasn’t totally averse to what lay ahead. 

“Pull down your pants.” 

Nick tried to obey, but it was obvious that his jeans were too tight. He was wriggling around and trying to free his cock but he didn’t have much room to move. 

“For heaven’s sake – strip!” For a second Renard was afraid that this wasn’t the right tone to take with someone you wanted something from, and he was on the verge of apologizing, when he heard a half-suppressed moan. 

Renard’s words had gone directly to Nick’s head – and his dick. Oh, no! Nick was used to following orders so this shouldn’t be a turn on. But it was. He… he should stop analysing the situation and do as Renard said. The faster they finished, the better for the captain. This was business, perhaps not as usual, but it was business. Nick got up, kicked his shoes away, and with one single move got rid of his jeans and his boxers. He let himself flop back down into the chair and, when his naked skin met the cold leather, he moaned again. This was so… decadent. 

A moan? Very interesting. A quick look at Nick’s cock confirmed what Renard had already had suspected – the Grimm was very turned on by this scenario. Whether it was his captain on his knees in front of him, or the orders he was giving him, he wasn’t totally sure. But as Nick didn’t move until he told him, “Spread your legs for me,” he was fairly certain that it was the latter. 

With a small whimper, the other man complied thus baring himself totally to Renard’s gaze. He even pulled up his shirt tails a few inches when they threatened to cover up his genitalia. 

Renard put his right hand on Nick’s thigh which elicited another moan and a shiver from the Grimm. Under other circumstances, Renard would have liked very much to play this game for a bit longer, but now he couldn’t forget that he had a very imminent mission. Make the Grimm come. 

“You don’t come until you have my permission. Understood?” 

“Yes, sir.” Nick nodded vehemently and Renard could nearly forget that he was on his knees for this. He didn’t know if the Grimm was always this submissive, or if he somehow sensed that it would be easier for his captain this way. Whatever it was, Renard felt more confident than before. He wasn’t taking advantage of the other man. This also seemed to be a secret fantasy of the Grimm, otherwise he wouldn’t have submitted so easily and quickly. 

Renard bent forward and licked a long stripe on the hard, already leaking dick of the Grimm.  
He heard a mumbled, “Yes, please.” He needed no more permission and started sucking Nick off. 

Nick’s brain was rapidly going into overload, his blood pounded loudly in his ears. This was so out of his usual field of experience. He had never played power games before, and he was surprised at how much he liked to be told what to do. Not to be in charge, even though Renard was the one on his knees, was such an exhilarating feeling. He gripped the armrests of the chair harder. 

Renard would have loved to tease the other man, but he was racing against time and so he hollowed his cheeks and continued sucking. With his right hand he fondled Nick’s balls, applying a bit more pressure when it made him moan louder. If Adalind had known how easy it had been to persuade the Grimm perhaps she would have reconsidered using a Stich-Libelle, he thought with the hint of a smirk. Which vanished immediately as a terrible thought hit him: if he survived, Adalind would know for sure that he’d had sex with the Grimm in one form or the other! Merde! He would think about this later, first he had to survive. 

He redoubled his efforts and when he felt that Nick was only seconds away from his orgasm he gave him a sharp slap to his thigh and mumbled around his cock: “Now!” 

Two seconds later Nick’s hips were jutting forward, and for the first time he laid his hands on Renard’s head, immobilizing him while he spilled into his mouth in long pulses. Renard drank him down eagerly, until the last drop. After a short moment, he let go of Nick who had a dreamy, dazed look on his face. 

Renard sat back and leaned against the leg of his desk. Almost immediately he felt the antidote taking effect. The numbness in his arm receded slowly and he could move his fingers again after a few moments. The angry red colour of the wound got lighter and lighter and the swelling started to disappear. And if he felt hot in this moment, he was sure it wasn’t fever related, but had much more to do with the activities from a few moments ago. 

Which brought him back to Nick Burkhardt who was still sitting half-naked in his chair. When he looked more closely, he saw that his detective was smiling. Then his smile gave way to concern and he asked, “Did it work? Do you already feel the effects?” 

“I do.” He showed him his hand. 

Nick nodded and Renard stood up. He picked up Nick’s clothes and gave them to the other man saying, “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” It was an automatic response and, only when he heard the words spoken aloud, did Nick realize how insufficient they were. His and Renard’s. But, if the captain wanted to play it like that, he would accommodate him. At least for the moment. He needed time to think this evening through. Quickly, he put on his clothes while Renard turned to the wall, rummaging very obviously through a drawer of the sideboard to give him a bit of privacy. 

“You owe me a coffee,” Nick teased after he was dressed again. 

Renard turned around. “I owe you more than that.” 

Nick shrugged nonchalantly and grinned. “Rain check?” Before Renard could answer, he took a few steps to the door and said, “Good night, Captain. See you tomorrow.” 

“You too, detective.” Then he was alone. He sat down in the chair Nick had vacated a few moments ago. He still felt the warmth of the other man clinging to the leather. The images of from what they had done flooded back to him. He hadn’t been hard during the last minutes. He had been too concentrated, and his arm had hurt too much, to really savour the moment. But now he felt the first stirrings of his penis as he remembered how… wanton Nick had looked in that chair and how good his hard shaft had felt in his mouth. He… 

Renard got up resolutely. No. Not here. They had been lucky that nobody had disturbed them and he wouldn’t tempt fate. He would drive home first. He grabbed his car keys and stretched. Yes, he felt good. He felt healed, full of energy, wide awake, strong, virile and potent. Even more than before. Fascinating. 

Perhaps there was something in the ‘source of life’ of a Grimm that wasn’t in the books? 

 

\----END----

 

©Antares, May-June 2013

**Author's Note:**

> (The quote at the beginning is from: “Snowdrop,” http://www.gutenberg.org/files/2591/2591-h/2591-h.htm#link2H_4_0059)


End file.
